


The Gift

by Stark_Knight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post Series, book fandom, everyone gets a happy ending but the dead stay dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 08:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17097317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stark_Knight/pseuds/Stark_Knight
Summary: After the War for the Dawn has been won, Sansa wants to tell Sandor of her feelings for him—but does he feel the same way about her? Or does he want to leave Winterfell and start a new life? An unexpected shipment arrives in the North, and sets off the events that may lead to Sansa’s greatest happiness—or her worst disappointment.





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue_Lemons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Lemons/gifts).



> This is my gift for the Tumblr SanSan Secret Santa 2018, following the prompt of “Gift imported from the Southern Isles” from Blue_Lemons.

Sansa stomped into the snowy yard of Winterfell, drawing her hood up against the stray snowflakes that fell from the sky. This was early snow; midwinter would not arrive for another moon yet. Strange, to think how different it had been when she was a child. Then she had lived in a seemingly endless summer. Now, the seasons were as changeful as the cycles of her own body.

It was cold out here. Bran’s audience hall was warm, but there were too many people there, and her brother did not always need her for counsel. In fact, he was coming to rely on himself more and more.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Sansa spotted her guardsman, who had suddenly appeared beside a stray pillar to brood out over the yard. Even as she stifled a smile, a warm feeling rose in her chest, dizzying her. Who would ever had thought she could feel this way about Sandor Clegane? Who would have known that he would survive everything, to make his way back to her side?

This feeling had been with Sansa a long time, since she and Sandor had taken Petyr Baelish down together. She remembered their reunion in the Vale; the secret meetings, coded messages, all hidden from her guardian’s eyes. Sandor had revealed the truth about Baelish, but they had had to hide it for a long time. During that time, Sansa remembered being tongue-tied around Sandor, never sure what to say. What could she have said to him? The memory had burned brightly in her mind: the flames, men dying outside the castle, the Hound in her bed, the kiss he had stolen… Sandor Clegane had come to the Vale a new man, but Sansa hadn’t known where to begin with him.

It was only when Baelish was gone, when the battles were over and the armies standing ready to take her home, that she had ventured to ask Sandor about that night on the Blackwater. They had allowed themselves a short, private celebration, and she had finally plucked up enough courage to mention the kiss.

Sandor’s reaction had been immediate. ‘Kiss?’ A look of confusion had crossed his face, and he had shaken his head. ‘No—I never did that, girl!’ He had started to rise from his seat, and she remembered the sudden panic that fluttered in her breast for no reason. ‘I was drunk, I remember—I remember your song—but I never kissed you.’

He had left the room then, as if he were uncomfortable staying there, and Sansa had burst into tears.

It was only later that she had realized he was right: Sandor had never kissed her. She had made up a fantasy in her own head, one that she had repeated so often that she had started to believe in it.

It was only then that Sansa had begun to ask herself why she had concocted this fantasy in the first place.

When it was all over, she had told herself, when she was home in Winterfell once more, she would tell him. She would tell Sandor Clegane that she was—in love with him.

But when her army had marched north to Winterfell, it had only been the beginning of their troubles.

The War for the Dawn, as they now called it, had raged for five long years. Five long years in hard winter, with dead things from the north getting as close as the very walls of Winterfell. She had never found the chance to tell Sandor; he had been away leading troops most of the time. Though his leg would never fully heal, he had been one of their most important leaders, versed in military strategy. The men led by Sandor had lost the fewest of their number to the dead.

During the long, bitter war, she had only seen him in brief snatches, tiny islands of calm amidst the constantly raging storm. There had been some joy in those years—the return of her three younger siblings uppermost of all—but they had been hard. Sansa liked to think that she had turned from porcelain slowly into steel; if that was true, the war had made a sword of her. She had tried to keep herself as strong as possible, keep up the war effort at home by supervising the making of winter clothes and distribution of their meagre provisions, but she had constantly wished that Sandor could only have been by her side. She had sent letters, but had never dared to pour her true feelings onto the parchment, and he had sent back equally terse replies.

And now, when the war was over for nearly two years, she still had not mustered the courage to tell him.

Her feelings had not changed a bit during those years; if anything, they had grown stronger. But after the victory, there had been so much work to do. So much had to be rebuilt, and so many people had had to be rehoused and fed. And then the panic that had occurred when, after only a few short months, the days had once again grown shorter and the autumn winds had come…

Only the trust in Bran’s predictions had kept the North sane during the first winter after the war. Bran had insisted that summer would come again shortly, that the seasons were merely aligning themselves to the year and that never again would a single season last for more than a few moons. It had been so in the past, thousands of years ago, and the world was righting itself again. And as Bran said, so it had been, and summer had come once more, to everyone’s vast relief.

Now it was winter again, the North was secure, and Sansa had no reason to put off telling Sandor of her love for him. He had been assigned as her personal guardsman, and over the past year or so, they had developed a mutual trust and friendship. She felt as though she understood him so much better now. And she felt that she could make him happy.

Only one thing stopped her from telling him. She did not know if he felt the same about her.

Since their reunion, he had never once overstepped his boundaries again, never tried to scare her, never touched her inappropriately. He behaved towards her with the respect she had once expected of him. It seemed as though he were content to forget all he had said to her in the past, every encounter that Sansa had so faithfully committed to her memory. Was he ashamed of his past conduct? She thought he might be, but now she often found herself secretly longing for a bit of impropriety from her stoic guardsman. Sandor had always been a man of deeds rather than words, and he performed every duty to her most faithfully—but did this show an affection towards her, or was this merely what he was used to doing? He had been a personal guard for most of his life, after all.

If Sandor loved her, Sansa thought, he would show it, surely he would. If he wanted to kiss her, he would have done it by now. But it was hard to give up the hope that someday he would. If she told him, that hope would be gone.

Someone was calling for her, back inside. There was always work to do. Sansa raised her hand and gave Sandor a small wave, which he acknowledged by merely raising his eyebrows, not moving from his position by the pillar.

Sansa put her thoughts away and entered the audience hall once more. Bran had been listening to the suits brought before him by the common folk, but now there was an open scroll in front of him, clearly brought by a raven. The minder of the ravens, Theon, was nowhere to be seen, but that was not unusual; since Bran had given him the role of acting maester of Winterfell, he had taken to spending most of his time with the ravens, away from other people.

Bran looked up as his sister entered the room, and smiled.

‘Good news?’ Sansa asked eagerly.

‘It’s from Lady Wynafryd in White Harbor,’ Bran announced. ‘She writes to tell us that a fleet of trading ships from the Summer Isles has landed there and wishes to do trade with the North.’

‘The Summer Isles?’ Sansa was taken aback. Ships from the Summer Isles had never made port in White Harbor before. But before, King’s Landing had been a great and thriving city, and there had been no need for them to sail north to offload their goods.

‘She writes of the wonders the Summer Islanders have brought,’ Bran said excitedly. ‘Besides rare woods and textiles, their ships are loaded with fruits and vegetables from the southern lands and the Free Cities. She felt it was her duty to inform you of this cargo, since the common folk of Winterfell may also be suffering from the sailor’s illness running rampant in her town.’

Sansa nodded grimly. The trade roads to the south were in disarray, and her people were hard-pressed to grow the fruits they needed. The glass greenhouses of Winterfell could never yield enough to provide for everyone, and many were walking around with the tell-tale sores and bleeding gums of the disease. This illness could be speedily cured simply by eating lemons, but Sansa had not seen a lemon for many years.

‘We must send someone to White Harbor at once,’ she said firmly. ‘We cannot miss this opportunity.’

‘It must be someone we trust,’ Bran said. ‘Someone with good judgment, and a thorough knowledge of what Winterfell needs.’

‘I do not think I can go,’ Sansa said with chagrin. ‘The Midwinter Feast was my idea; I must be the one to make all the arrangements and be on hand to welcome our guests whenever they arrive.’

‘I will go,’ a deep voice said from the shadows. Bran and Sansa both turned. Sandor had slipped in without their noticing, and was standing with his arms folded, an oddly unreadable look on his face.

‘Sandor?’ Bran seemed surprised. ‘I would not have thought you had much liking for trade.’

‘My lord, what is it you think I do here all day?’ From anyone else, this directness might have been considered impertinence, but the two Starks both knew that Sandor addressed those he did not respect in a far worse way. He stepped forward, towards Bran. ‘Fighting bores me half to death these days, and there are younger, fitter men _and_ women who can help teach the boys.’ Sansa’s mouth quirked at the offhand reference to her sister Arya’s fighting skills. ‘Well, I busy myself by talking to people. Finding out what the cook, the stablehand, even the maids want. Finding out what the running of this castle needs.’

‘Sandor is probably our most faithful man,’ Sansa said to her brother, even as her heart felt cold at the thought of not seeing him for weeks. ‘He has been here long enough to know our needs, and I trust his common sense.’

‘Very well,’ Bran agreed. ‘Sandor, you will go to White Harbor and treat with the Summer Islanders.’

 

The night before Sandor was due to leave, Sansa could find no sleep. She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to place why she felt so restless. Eventually, she lit a candle and pulled clothes from her chest, hardly looking to see what she was dressing in. It was warm, and that was all that mattered. There was a sort of urgency in her now, and she quickly made her way through the dark castle, holding her candle.

Outside, snowflakes were falling softly over the silent castle yard. Sansa paused for a moment, setting down her candle on the flagstones. Grey clouds obscured the moon, but there was enough light for her to make her way without it. She strode across the snow, making her way towards the godswood.

No sooner had she settled down before the pool, under the heart tree, than she was joined by her brothers’ direwolves. Summer and Shaggydog padded through the snow, paused to let her briefly caress them, and then ran together beneath the trees. Sansa watched them with a sense of longing. When they ran together like this, she could see a third shape between them, smaller and sleeker, soft white fur tipped with grey and a sleek, soft nose.

_Lady_. Sansa could never tell whether it was only her imagination, or if somehow Lady’s shade still dwelt here, running with her brothers, fueled by the magic in this place.

Footsteps crunched through the snow, and she lifted her head. It was Sandor. He was dressed as haphazardly as she was, as though he had flung on the first clothes that came to hand. He started at the sight of her, sitting there beneath the heart tree, eyes far away.

‘Sansa?’ Evidently in his surprise, he had forgotten that he usually called her ‘Lady Sansa.’ He strode over to her. ‘What are _you_ doing here?’

Sansa arched an eyebrow. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I—’ Sandor looked down at himself. ‘I had a fancy to take a walk,’ he growled.

‘Well, I have been in this godswood at night many times before, Sandor,’ Sansa said coolly. ‘I have never seen you take a midnight walk in the snow before.’

Abruptly, Sandor sat down beside her. A scowl darkened his features, but he did not seem angry. Summer and Shaggydog scampered back into view, and he watched them as snowflakes drifted down to settle in his hair. ‘You like it here?’ he asked Sansa.

She nodded. ‘This is where my father used to sit,’ she said. ‘Not usually at night, though. He used to come here to think.’

‘And you?’ Sandor asked. ‘Are you thinking?’

‘Imagining.’

‘Imagining what?’

Sansa sighed. ‘My direwolf, Lady.’ Sandor was silent. ‘I wish she were here too.’

Sandor cleared his throat. ‘Little bird—I’m sorry.’

Sansa turned her head. ‘Why? You weren’t responsible.’

‘That is true,’ he said softly, ‘but, nevertheless, I am sorry.’

There was a long silence in which more snow settled on them. Finally Sansa broke the silence, asking: ‘So what do you like to imagine?’

Sandor drew idle lines in the snow beside him. ‘A castle,’ he said at length.

‘Like Winterfell?’

He shook his head. ‘Smaller than that. And without that bloody ruin in the background.’ He gestured towards the ancient ruins. ‘A comfortable place, not too big, and just enough land to get by on.’

‘And who would live in this castle?’

Sandor shrugged. ‘A man and his wife.’

‘And they have sons?’

‘Daughters,’ Sandor corrected her. ‘They dote on their father. And’—he hesitated, darting a glance at Sansa—‘when they sing, they have the most beautiful voices.’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ Sansa said softly. He turned his head to look at her.

‘Idle dreams,’ he said brusquely. ‘My lady, you should be getting to bed.’

Sansa suddenly stifled a yawn, realizing that tiredness had crept up on her whilst she had sat here, dreaming things that were and might be. She let him help her to her feet without protest, and they walked back to the castle together.

At the corner of the corridor that led to her room, Sansa paused, not quite knowing what to say. ‘Sandor—’ she began.

‘I will return before long,’ Sandor said reassuringly, as if he had known what was in her mind. His mouth quirked with a smile. ‘Like any faithful hound.’

‘You are not my faithful hound,’ Sansa said, half serious. ‘Say rather, my direwolf.’

Sandor caught her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘As you wish, little bird,’ he said, then turned around and strode off into the darkness. Sansa gazed after him, baffled, for a long time.

When last was it, that Sandor had called her ‘little bird?’ She couldn’t even remember, it had been that long ago. And always before, it had seemed to her like there was a sort of mockery behind the nickname; there had been none of that in his voice tonight.

It would be so much harder to be parted from him now. Sansa put herself back to bed, hoping that the planning of the Midwinter Feast would be an adequate distraction from her feelings.

 

As Sansa had expected, the days flew by as she busied herself with the arrangements for the feast. However, her nights were long and lonely. The day before the feast, she went down to breakfast looking so gloomy that even Rickon asked her what she was sad about.

After breakfast was done, Sansa was heading towards the kitchens where Bran forestalled her. ‘Do you think you could take me out into the yard?’ he asked. ‘I wish to take some air before it starts to snow again.’

Sansa wheeled him out into the castle yard, where the frosty air bit at their faces. ‘Do you want to stay out long?’ she asked him, shivering.

‘Many young sons of the North have come for the feast,’ Bran observed, ignoring her question.

‘I suppose so.’ Sansa concentrated on navigating her brother’s chair through the snowdrifts.

‘You are indifferent,’ Bran said, some surprise in his voice. ‘I remember a time when you would have thrilled to meet the eligible young men and dance with them.’

‘Oh, I intend to dance,’ Sansa said lightly.

‘Sansa—’ Bran hesitated. ‘The war is over now. Many of those young men have come to Winterfell in the hopes of winning your hand.’ When Sansa said nothing, he continued, ‘I understand if you do not wish to wed again, and I will never command you to, but I sense an unhappiness in you this winter. You no longer belong at Winterfell the way you used to.’

‘No,’ Sansa protested. ‘You need me here. So does Rickon.’

‘Winterfell will always be your home,’ Bran agreed, ‘but we do not really need you anymore, Sansa. Please, don’t feel as if you must stay here for our sakes.’

Sansa bit her lip. ‘I do not want to marry again, unless it is for love,’ she declared. ‘I swore that never again would I be used as a political puppet or bargaining piece.’

‘And you will never have to,’ Bran said immediately. ‘I promise you that. But please, do not push love away because of your responsibilities to Winterfell.’

Sansa was about to answer when a servant ran up. ‘Lady Sansa, Lord Bran, Sandor Clegane has returned, and he has brought the wonders of summer with him!’

‘At last!’ Sansa felt a burden fall from her heart. ‘Let’s go to meet him,’ she said to Bran.

Sandor had achieved all of their desires, and more. Wagons of food and other materials were making their slow way to Winterfell, all to arrive in time for the Midwinter Feast. Sandor had ridden ahead with Wynafryd Manderly, who was excited to see Winterfell after its extensive restorations. There was a third rider too, a Summer Islander wrapped up in furs and feathers and taking in everything around him with great interest. He introduced himself as Jhobar Xhan, a young trader intent on seeing the world.

The variety of fruits was not to be believed. There were huge gourds of green and brown and orange; there were apples and pears; there were lemons not only in yellow, but in shades of orange and green. There was enough to give every family in the winter town fruits to take home, and Sansa already began excitedly to work this thought into the planning of the feast.

The pride of the lot was a queer, prickly yellow fruit which at first glance resembled nothing so much as a weapon, for there were spikes on its green leaves and prickles all over its hide. But when cut into, it yielded a bright yellow fruit sweeter than apples, and according to the envoy, more useful than lemons at staving off the sailors’ sickness. Sansa had the cooks produce cakes similar to her beloved lemoncakes from this fruit, and decided upon tasting them that they would have a place of pride at her winter feast.

Sansa had spared no effort nor expense in the planning of the feast, and Sandor’s gifts from the lands of summer proved the main talking point of all conversations. Several travelling singers had arrived, seeking to provide entertainment. All four Starks turned up for the feast, even Arya, who had made the journey south from the lands beyond where the Wall had once stood, which she was helping to restore to the wildling refugees. Arya and Rickon were peas in a pod now, each as wild and loud as the other despite the difference in their looks. Arya was only distracted when one of her men sauntered over, a tall, muscular boy whom Sansa had met before, and who bore more than a passing resemblance to the old Baratheon king.

The hall was warm; there was food, music and good cheer, and the faces of her brothers and sister. It was more than Sansa had dreamed she would ever see again. Once, she had believed herself to be the only one left. Until Sandor had arrived in the Vale, and set the events in motion which led to her reuniting with all three of them. She was half tearful as she gazed at him, where he sat on Bran’s right hand amongst the lords of the North.

‘Sansa, why the dour face?’ Arya, at Sansa’s right, nudged her sister. ‘Your feast was a marvelous success. I always knew you’d be good at these things.’ Arya’s eyes followed Sansa’s, down to the half-burned visage of her guardsman. She giggled. ‘Sansa, all the North wonders why you haven’t yet wed. I think I just figured out why.’

Before Sansa could retort, Bran called for silence. It was a mark of the respect that the whole North held for him, that within only a few minutes, the hall was silent enough to hear a pin drop.

‘I trust you have all enjoyed the food and festivities,’ Bran said. ‘This was our first Midwinter Feast, but it will not be the last. The Starks will always be here to make sure that you do not have to bear the cold hand of winter alone. To help soften winter’s harshness, we have prepared a basket of fruit for every household within the town.’ A cheer went up, lasting for several minutes. Bran smiled as it died away. ‘Let this be known as our Midwinter Gift to you all. And speaking of gifts’—he gestured toward the man on his right hand—‘we have Sandor Clegane to thank for bringing us the riches of summer. For your service in arranging this trade, Sandor Clegane, you may ask a boon.’

Sandor stood up and bowed before Bran’s high chair. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘I ask you to grant me part of the land that made up the hereditary lands of the House of Bolton. Furthermore, I ask your assistance in raising a castle there, and granting me vassals to repopulate the land.’

There was a murmur amongst the high lords, as Bran raised his hands for silence. Sansa felt empty, as if all the wind had been knocked out of her. How could Sandor do this to her? Had she not repaid him enough for his service? Had she not granted him a high enough position?

No—all of that counted for nought, she realized, because he did not love her. He still saw her as the same naïve girl he had met in the south, and would never see her as anything else, no matter how mature she grew. Did he not have the right to leave her side, and find himself a woman he could actually love? Her cheeks were hot, and she thought she might burst into tears, but she held them back. It would not do for her to show any emotion; that would only start unwanted rumours.

‘It is no small thing you ask, Clegane,’ Bran was saying. ‘And many believe the land around the old Dreadfort to be cursed, and will not set foot there.’

‘I do not ask for the land where the old castle stood, my lord,’ Sandor said. ‘I will raise a new dwelling some distance away. As you say, it will be no small thing. But I beg of you to take my years of faithful service into account. I have never asked such a favour of you before.’

If there were any of the high lords who still claimed Bolton land, they did not have enough courage to raise their protests. Sansa herself wanted to protest, but she could not think of what to say.

Finally Bran answered. ‘Very well, then. You shall have the land you ask for, workers to raise your castle, and any surplus peasants from the castles and towns of the north will have the choice to accompany you.’ The lord of Winterfell allowed himself a smile. ‘Long has that land gone barren,’ he said. ‘It would give me great joy to see something good come out of Bolton lands.’

Sandor gave another bow and returned to his seat. Sansa felt her eyes fill with tears. She waited for the noise and chatter of the feast to resume, waited as long as she was able, then quietly excused herself and walked as fast as she could out of the door.

Once she was outside, she gasped as the cold hit her. Running now, in tears, she wanted to put the castle and all in it behind her. She didn’t care where she ran—

When she finally came to her senses, she realized that her feet had taken her to the godswood. The great heart tree frowned down; the pool was before her feet. She silently faced the tree. Tears were still streaming down her cheeks.

She heard the crunch of boots in the snow behind her, and turned. It was him, of course. Sandor. Why had he come, now? Hadn’t he shown her his disregard?

‘Little bird.’ Sandor walked over towards her, and took her hand. ‘Why are you crying?’

She struggled away from him. ‘Why would you even ask such a thing? Why should you care?’

To her great surprise, Sandor suddenly threw back his head and began to laugh. She glared at him until he stopped. There were still tears on her cheeks. ‘Why do you mock me?’ she whispered.

‘You silly girl’—Sandor quickly stepped up to her, and put his arms about her—‘what do you think the castle and the land is for?’ He squeezed her tightly to him, and Sansa was too confused to pull away. ‘It’s for you, of course, little bird! How could I ask you to love me when I had nothing to offer you?’

Sansa somehow found her voice. ‘Y-you—’

Sandor cupped her cheek with his bare hand and raised her head to his. Lifting her half off the ground with his strong arms, he kissed her. His mouth was rough as ever she had dreamed, but gentle too, and there was nothing sweeter than the strength of his arms around her. When he finally released her, she clung to him, so close to his chest she could feel his heart beat.

Sandor gazed into her eyes, one hand entwined in her hair. ‘Sansa,’ he said, ‘will you go with me? Will you be my lady, raise our castle together, love me and dwell with me always?’ As she hesitated, she saw doubt come into his eyes, and suddenly she realized that doubt had plagued Sandor’s heart too. He had never had the courage to ask for her love before, in case she rejected him. He was not a man who could ever be content if he felt he had done nothing to win her. Sansa’s eyes flooded with tears.

‘I will be your lady,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I will be yours, Sandor, and love you for ever. No matter what happens.’

 

Just as the spring begun, before the planting season, Sansa wed her erstwhile guardsman at Winterfell. The ceremony was small, since most of the lords of the North were gearing up for the planting, but it was no matter: all the Starks were there, and that was what Sansa cared about. The day before the wedding, a snowstorm blew in, turning the castle and the godswood bright and beautiful. They wed in front of the heart tree, with snowflakes falling about them. Sandor removed the cloak of white and grey from Sansa’s shoulders and replaced it with his own standard, the dogs upon a yellow field. She could not help but be reminded of the first cloak he had placed over her, and how much had changed since then.

Their wedding feast did not last long, but it seemed an eternity for Sansa. She had waited so long already—she wanted to be alone with her husband.

There was no bedding ceremony at Northern weddings, but a small crowd gathered nevertheless to see them up the stairs. A few of the thrown comments made Sansa blush, and she held tightly to her husband’s hand.

Someone called: ‘Let’s see the strength of the Hound, then!’ Sansa glanced up at Sandor’s face, fearing that she would see him in anger. But he did not seem, anymore, to be perturbed by his old nickname. The corner of his mouth quirked and, suddenly, he seized Sansa and swept her off her feet, carrying her as easily as he might a child. Cheers of the men below followed them as he carried her all the way up the winding stairway, bad leg and all. Sansa was breathless when he finally entered their bedroom and set her down.

The door shut, and Sandor turned to her. ‘It’s your last chance to escape this, my lady,’ he said softly. His tone was jocular, but there was a sort of fear in his eyes—a fear that Sansa wanted to still immediately.

Smiling, as if she had not noticed the fear, she plucked at the lacings of her wedding dress, letting it slip from her shoulders and fall towards the floor. Her short slip quickly went the same way. She was naked save for her jewelry, but she felt no doubt, no hesitation. She stepped towards her husband, whose eyes were now riveted upon her.

‘You’re overdressed,’ she teased, sliding her hands up his shirt. Sandor grinned before he kissed her, sliding his rough, callused hands down to the small of her back, pressing her against him as she stood on tiptoe to reach his kiss. Impatiently, Sandor tugged at his own clothes, pulling off shirt and vest in one motion before divesting himself of his pants. Her eyes drank him in with admiration and pride: the wide, strong chest; the scars that showed his bravery; the rough hands that roved over her body with a gentle touch. Before she knew it, they were both on the bed. She was leaning over him, her nipples brushing against his chest. As she ran her hand over him, Sandor took hold of it and guided it towards his erect manhood. He groaned in pleasure as she caressed him, admiring the strength and the hardness of it, but suddenly hoping it would not cause her too much pain.

Sandor gathered her to him, kissing her harder than he had before, holding her more tightly. He trailed kisses over her neck and collarbones, causing a thrill to rush through her. He flipped her onto her back, and Sansa tensed, but he made no move to put himself inside her; instead, he began to gently touch her breasts with his hands, running his thumbs lightly over her nipples. Sansa gasped, feeling pleasure course through her, and she yearned for him to touch her between her legs. Sandor trailed kisses over her breasts and her torso, moving downwards as she squirmed with desire. He had no need to part her thighs; they were already open, welcoming his touch. When he parted her woman’s lips with his hands, she knew that his fingers would come away sopping wet.

Sansa moaned out for him to take her, but he continued to tease her with his hands and his mouth, bringing her almost to the peak of arousal before subsiding again. Finally she could take no more. Pushing him away, she shoved him down onto his back and positioned herself over him. His manhood was right between her splayed legs. Taking hold of it, she guided it inside her, arching backwards as she felt it open her. Instinctively, she began to move back and forth above Sandor, working him deeper with every movement. His hands caressed her thighs, pulling her towards him.

She was surprised at how deep it went before she felt any pain, and by that time she was too focused on her pleasure—and his—to stop what she was doing. When she leaned forward, she could feel her nub of pleasure press against Sandor’s flesh, sending waves of ecstasy through her body. His arms came up to encircle her, pressing her harder against him, and suddenly the peak of her pleasure hit her, driving all sense out of her. A long gasp escaped her lips as warmth erupted through her, waves rippling through her body, a pleasure so intense that it was almost painful. She slumped over Sandor’s chest. He took her in his arms and turned her over without even breaking the rhythm of his thrusting. Holding himself up over her, he thrust deep, causing still more waves of the same pleasure to erupt. She was wetter down there than ever before.

He reached his climax suddenly, gazing into her eyes and releasing his seed with a rush inside her. Slumping back down to the bed, he rolled onto his back, allowing her to drape herself over his chest. The inside of her thighs was all slippery, and she realized that they were both covered in sweat.

‘I’m going to clean up,’ Sansa said, as soon as she felt as though she could trust her legs enough to carry her. Sandor gave her a squeeze, and let her go. She rolled off the bed and made her way unsteadily towards the privy. It had been a lot messier than what she had thought it would be, but she didn’t really care at all; it was as if her entire body was wrapped in a warm glow that nothing could penetrate. Someone had once told her, long ago, that a woman’s life was nine parts mess to one part magic. But the magical bits of tonight had far outshone the messy bits.

Shivering a little, Sansa dashed back to the bed, blew out the candle, and slid under the blankets beside her husband. Sandor rolled over as she crawled in beside him and wrapped his arms around her, encircling her in a pool of warmth. Sansa shut her eyes, sinking into a sleepy haze.

‘Little bird,’ Sandor rumbled. She gave a sleepy murmur of assent.

‘You saved my life,’ Sandor whispered suddenly, and Sansa opened her eyes. She could not see his face in the darkness, but she could feel his breath against her lips, his face close to hers.

‘I had given up,’ Sandor continued, before she had a chance to reply. ‘I had closed myself off from the world. I cared for nobody. No-one cared for me. Until you came along.’ He seemed determined to keep talking until it was all out of him, and she stayed quiet, listening. ‘And you saw through it all. You broke me, I thought. But now I know—you gave me my life back. That was your gift to me.’

Silence fell. Sansa wrapped her arms around Sandor’s chest, hugging him close. ‘There is no better gift you have given me than yourself,’ she whispered, half tearful all of a sudden. ‘And now, we get to start together. This will be our spring, my lord husband.’ She took his face in her hands and kissed him on the lips, feeling him start to smile as she said the word ‘husband.’

‘Yes, lady wife.’ Sandor squeezed her to him, as fiercely as only he could.

They fell asleep together as the spring snow settled lightly over the castle.


End file.
